


Like a Fish Out of Water (You Drown in the Air)

by art_brutal



Category: Bandom, Music RPF, My Chemical Romance
Genre: AU, Angst, Crack, squidmonsters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-07
Updated: 2012-03-07
Packaged: 2017-11-04 06:17:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/390712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/art_brutal/pseuds/art_brutal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gerard's a washed-up comics writer more in thrall to the party circuit than creating art. It's going to take something or someone extraordinary to turn him around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like a Fish Out of Water (You Drown in the Air)

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the awesome [artwork](http://chibifukurou.livejournal.com/52490.html) by [Chibifukurou](http://chibifukurou.livejournal.com/) and created for [bandomreversebb](http://bandomreversebb.livejournal.com/) (my first collaborative challenge. Yay!).
> 
> Warnings for extreme angst turning into crack halfway through, and Bert McCracken bashing.
> 
> Disclaimer: A work of complete fiction.
> 
> Also posted to [Livejournal](url).

The incessant shrill ringing of his mobile phone wasn't really helping Gerard's concentration as he tried to correctly enter the last three digits of his security code on the console at his front gate. Why the fuck do I need so much security anyway? Oh yeah, he thought, because shit like this happens. His fist closed around the gossip rag in his hand containing those pictures as he remembered precisely why he felt the need to get shit-faced drunk.

The ringing continued as he finally convinced the alarm that he was the Gerard Way, superstar comics writer, and made his way along the path at the side of his beach house. After a similar struggle with the door and a key that seemed far too large (and bendy, wtf?) to go in the lock he gave up on the idea of locating that bottle of schnapps he knew was somewhere in the house and wound his way down the wooden steps and straight onto the beach. That's what he got this place for, he reminded himself: privacy.

He landed on the sand with a thump. Privacy, yeah right! Gerard focussed his blurry gaze on the magazine in his fist. Willing himself to ease his grip on it he tried to out-stare the hairsprayed and eyelinered version of himself on the cover. He lost. He couldn't bring himself to open it up to the double-page spread of his naked self in those grainy paparazzi shots.

He remembered the ringing phone and finally looked at the caller ID. Stabbing blindly at the buttons he hoped his agent could figure out how in the hell it happened.

"Steve, what the fuck?" he slurred.

"Gerard, darling, you've seen it then? This is marvellous publicity for the new issue. Timing couldn't be better."

If Gerard was thinking more clearly he'd be suspicious of Steve's lack of surprise.

"How could they? The fuckers. It was a party...with friends...I was just changing into shorts for the hot tub. How did they even get in there? I need more security. Can you get me one of those bodyguards? Yeah, and a...a restraining order. On every fucker with a camera."

"Gerry, darling," Steve wheedled. "There's no need for that. It won't be happening again."

"How do you know?"

"It's my job to know everything that happens to you, sweetheart. Try to forget about it, let it settle down. It'll do wonders for you sales figures."

"Steve, I can't...you don't..." He slumped backwards onto the damp sand, defeated. "Is there no part of my life they can't get to?"

Steve switched tack, from placatory to a breezy efficiency.

"Don't worry about it, babe. It's all going to work out. See you tomorrow at the première."

And Gerard was left with the dial tone. It wasn't like he was sending naked pictures of himself over the internet. He'd been at a house party. With friends. He'd been changing into shorts for the hot tub. And the angle was totally unflattering.

Scrambling back up into a sitting position he started ripping at the magazine. Tiny pieces of his dignity fluttered around his head and he threw the remains of the glossy pages in the direction of the ocean. The sea breeze flung it back in his face and Gerard was wondering why even the laws of physics hated him when his phone rang again.

"Bert?"

"Ger, man, where you at?" He could hear the club in the background. The same hangers-on in the same VIP lounge he'd been in an hour earlier.

"Home. I had to leave," he choked out. "Did you see it?"

"See what?"

"The pictures, they...my..."

"The sexy ones in that magazine? Yeah..." he drawled. "You look good, man."

"Bert! I don't know how they got them. I don't know who to trust any more." He willed Bert to understand.

"I don't know what the big deal is. The timing's perfect. I'd kill for publicity like that. Maybe I should give Steve a call."

"He didn't...what? It wasn't a plan, for chrissakes. Someone intruded into my private life."

"Whatevs. You're lucky you got someone looking out for you. Are you coming back to the club or what?"

"What? No! I took...I had a lot to drink...and I took some of those pills, that Jeff had? I'm not feeling..."

"What's that? Sorry, Serena - whoops Sahara - was saying something. You coming back or not? The party ain't over. We can -"

Rather than answer Gerard flung his phone across the sand.

Gerard half screamed, half growled. He couldn't cope with this right now. He didn't know whether to be angry or upset. And with whom? He didn't know who had taken the pictures. Pacing up and down next to the rippling waves he couldn't even begin to think it through. He hadn't been lying to Bert. He was feeling really shitty.

He was no stranger to partying. It was practically in his contract that he had to be seen at all the newest clubs, movie premières, on the arms of starlets and the other writers Steve represented. He had needed someone to deal with the media, field all the interest in him when his writing had starting attracting attention but the intensity had upped recently. And now he couldn't remember the last time he'd woken up without a hangover.

He flopped down onto the soft, cold sand and toyed with the idea of taking some time off. He could get out of LA and its interminable good weather. Maybe not New Jersey - he wasn't exactly welcome there, but Portland, perhaps? Just to get away from the scene for a few days would be...something. But he knew Steve would never go for it. His heart started palpitating with the thought of how tied up he was, bound by contracts and obligations to be the charismatic rock star of the comics world - always on, always with some crazy new outfit or sound-bite. Or maybe it was the little orange pills Jeff had slipped him.

He was tired. So tired. As he curled into the sand he dimly heard his phone emitting a dying tone, like a clockwork toy winding down. For a brief second he imagined it was Mikey. Mikey would understand. But it was far too far away to consider answering it. And - oh yeah - he hadn't spoken to his brother in - fuck - almost a year.

The waves lapped closer, almost at his toes, and all Gerard could think was at least no one's here to see this. It was just him and the big cold, uncaring, unjudging ocean.

His phone continued a electronic whine, fainter now.

As his eyes fluttered closed he momentarily saw a flash of something near the end of the pier. The moonlight glinting off of something golden. Maybe ...

The last of Gerard's energy left him. He allowed himself to close his eyes and let sleep take him away to somewhere no one could intrude.

~~~~~

There's not usually so much - sand? - in his bed. Gerard turned over and immediately regretted it. Not only was his head doing the familiar hangover foxtrot but he felt like he'd coughed up a bathtub full of sea water. What the hell crazy cocktails did Bert 'invent' last night? And there was the fact that he was lying in the middle of the beach, the blazing sun and seagulls looking down on him.

He tried to wrack his brains for the chain of events that led him here when flashes of his dream came back to him. Usually he only remembered the bad ones - the ones that had him reaching for something to distract him just for a while, something like a well-stocked bar in a thronging nightclub, until the memories faded.

This one was a little different. There were flashes of gold, strong arms round his torso. With so much skin on skin and wet lips against his he felt like it should be a sex dream, but that didn't sit right. It was more vital, like some animating force is being ushered into him. It certainly wasn't the worst dream he'd ever had.

Struggling to his feet - only one of them still inside a shoe - he stumbled towards his house. The chafing of his shirt alerted him to strange circular marks on his torso. Being far from the weirdest drunken injuries he'd ever sustained he dismissed them.

~~~~~

Gerard really hadn't meant to go out tonight. After the less than stellar experience of waking up on the beach with a hangover being baked by the sun he planned to beg off the evening's required social appearance and turn his attention to his already overdue next issue. Steve and Bert had had other ideas.

"Steve, come on, I'm really not up for it tonight," Gerard pleaded. "I just need one night where I don't have to dress up, go out, get photographed, the same old bullshit."

"It's not a request," Steve responded, dropping all pretence at asking Gerard and turning stern. "Check your contract: that bullshit is your job. And I need the roughs for the next issue yesterday."

"Bert, come on, it's not you, I just need to get an early night after this industry thing I have to go to tonight," Gerard found himself pleading again.

"Ger, tonight's going to be epic. You've gotta be there. It's not a party without you. Jeff'll slip you something if you're not in the right mood," Bert replied.

Which is how, after another day of staring at a blank page before caving in and going to another media event and the inevitable after-party, Gerard found himself hosting the after-after-party back at his house.

"Ger, you gotta come see this!" Bert hollered from somewhere inside, followed by a crash and the tinkle of breaking glass. Gerard, standing on the deck, winced. Another day wasted. He hadn't managed to write one word before the constant phone calls from Steve's assistant and barrage of texts from Bert caused him to give in and join the party.

His new phone rumbled inside his pocket and the caller ID revealed Mikey's name alongside the unicorn he'd drawn for him two birthday's ago. Mikey called every day without fail or texted or emailed or, on special occasions, sent a letter but Gerard couldn't bear to hear the inevitable disappointment in his voice when he told him about his life in LA, that he spent more time writing his name on bar receipts than creating art.

Stabbing at the 'reject' button Gerard turned to head back inside, to find Jeff and Bert and forget about all the ways he was letting everyone down. As he turned, he caught a glimpse of something golden out of the corner of his eye. Straining to see in the murky waters, obscured by the bright lights emanating from his house, he could swear he saw a figure, half submerged in the water. A nagging curiosity made him want to investigate but, hell, it was probably just skinny dippers. Shrugging, he headed inside towards where he knew the best stash of alcohol was hidden.

~~~~~

There's not usually so much - floor? - in his bed. Gerard groaned and squinted in the bright morning light as he found himself in the - sadly familiar - position of waking up on the hard wood floor. He struggled to reassemble the events of the previous night: drinks - lots of drinks - some amazing green pills Jeff had been sharing, another broken window, people crashed out (he raised his head and looked around - thankfully they seemed to all be gone), and...scratching?

Gerard tried to shake off his fuzzy-headedness to think why something would be scratching - more scrabbling, really - at his patio door. After praising himself on figuring out that actually opening the door to check would be the best way to solve the mystery, he engaged himself in the Herculean task of getting off the floor, walking 12 feet and getting the raccoon, stray cat or whatever it was to shut the fuck up.

Gerard opened the door and stood, mouth agape, looking down on a naked man with a shock of coppery golden hair and a writhing mass of shiny, almost translucent golden tentacles. Except that wasn't quite right. The man was the mass of tentacles. Shading his eyes from the wicked gleam of sunlight reflecting off the man/tentacle assemblage, Gerard couldn't see where one stopped and the other began.

He closed the door.

The scrabbling started up again, combined with a strangled screech, and Gerard flung open the door again. The scene hadn't changed. He mentally slapped down his impending freakout to take in the creature's frantic writhing, alarmed expression and the pained sounding noise that was being emitted from its (very human-looking) lips. Something snapped into place in his head and he struggled to get a grip on the creature below the two tentacles that most resembled arms and drag him towards the closest source of water - his bathroom.

Heaving and straining, he dragged the frantic creature into his (thankfully gratuitously large) bathtub and slapped the taps on full. Once the water had filled a couple of inches the creature sagged, languidly spreading its tentacles out around the edges of the tub and looking a lot more relaxed. Gerard could have sworn he heard it sigh, which, he felt, was really too much for his poor, hangover-ridden, aching head. Switching off the taps he all but ran out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

His sock-clad feet sliding on the wooden floor, he skidded into the kitchen to look for anything that might help. After discarding a few empties he came to a vodka bottle with a couple of inches remaining and drained it, straight, before sliding down the cabinet to the relative certainty of the floor. He dug his phone out of his pocket and his fingers hesitated over his contact list as he wondered who it was most appropriate to call with what was either a drug-induced hallucination or a full mental break.

~~~~~

Bert had seen crazier shit than this, Gerard reasoned. After an interminable wait his best buddy's voiced groaned down the phone.

"Shit, sorry man," Gerard apologised. "I know it's early but I really need to talk right now."

"Nothing's this urgent. It's - ugh - fucking morning," Bert groused.

"I know, I know it's early but...can you just come over? Things are pretty bad. I dunno if it was those green pills or what but...I'm seeing some crazy shit."

"You call me for a bad trip? What are you, a fucking amateur? Enjoy the ride and call me when it's dark out. We're going to that party at Avril's house tonight and I need my beauty sleep."

"No, Bert, this is different, I really need you to-"

Gerard stopped short when he realised he was pleading with the dial tone. For a brief second he considered calling Steve but he'd have to be more delusional to think that snake would care about his well-being. He scrolled through name after name in a role call of drinking buddies and party acquaintances. Most of them he didn't even know their surnames. He scrolled past Mikey's name with a pang of regret that things had got so bad he couldn't rely on his brother for help. His gaze alighted on the name of one of his few writer friends. He'd been an inspiration and kind of a mentor back when Gerard was getting his first publishing deal but he stayed so far out of the whole industry scene that Gerard had lost touch. Somehow he thought Grant might have some answers for him.

"Master Morrison's Mansion of Mayhem. How may I help you?" a deep, Lurch-like voice intoned.

"It's Gerard. Way. Is Grant there? Please?"

"It's me. You sound terrible. What's going on?" Grant dropped the pretence and resumed his Scottish accent.

"I'm sorry. I don't even know why I called you. Things...are weird. And I just thought. Never mind. It's early. I'm sorry."

"It's fine. Just tell me what's going on," Grant ordered, brooking no argument.

"I don't really even know. I guess I'm tripping? Or still drunk. There were green pills. And then this octopus thing was in my bath. And I have to go to all these parties. And I haven't written a usable sentence in weeks," he half sobbed, half hiccuped into the phone.

"Gerard, do you feel nauseated or dizzy? Is there someone you can call to check up on you. Oh, wait. Probably not if you've resorted to calling me."

"Does the octopus-man count?" Gerard giggled. He was getting a little hysterical.

"Can you describe this octopus-man?" Grant asked.

"Um part man, part tentacles, part I'm obviously losing my mind," Gerard was practically wailing now, all sense of embarrassment at calling Grant with his freakout long gone.

"I'm not a fucking octopus. I'm a squid!" came a deep voice from the bathroom.

Gerard dropped his phone.

Fumbling to retrieve it he heard Grant calling his name.

"What's going on?" He asked Gerard.

"The octopus says it's a squid," answered Gerard in a small voice.

"Oh fer chrissakes," Grant exclaimed. "Only you Gerard Way."

"What did I do?"

"That's a big question, one for another time. Look, you're not going crazy. Well, crazier. The squid in your house is real. I'm sending someone over who knows more about the whole situation that I do. Just...try not to piss it off."

After giving Grant directions to his house and apologising multiple times before ending the call Gerard drew a deep breath and prepared to face the octo-squid in his bath. He grabbed a miraculously unopened can of beer and grabbed for the ring-pull. As he was about to down it he realised that alcohol was probably the last thing that would help his situation and chucked it in the sink where it swirled down the drain leaving a foamy trail.

Deciding that he'd have to deal with his insanity head on was one thing; actually opening the bathroom door and confronting it was a whole other level of terrifying. He'd been sitting on the floor, leaning up against the door for approximately aeons when a sound jolted him out of his reverie on aquatic-themed insanity.

"You might as well come in here," came a deep voice from behind the door. "I can't exactly go anywhere. And I'm getting kinda hungry."

"Do you really think I'm stupid enough to come in there and let you eat me?" Gerard asked.

The squid let out another long-suffering sigh. "What are you, algae? I didn't risk drowning by air just to eat you. Then again, your hair does look kind of like seaweed. Mmm, tasty, tasty seaweed."

A strangled cry emanated from Gerard's throat.

"Oh for the love of Neptune...OK, I take it you aren't at the joking stage yet. Just open the door. I'd like to explain why I'm here."

Gerard turned the handle and tentatively poked his head around the door. The squidthing was where he'd left it, floating in the bathtub that Gerard never used and holding himself up with his two uppermost tentacles leaning over the rim. Gerard was struck again by how incongruous it was. His face looked normal. Hot, even, with blonde hair gone fluffy now that it wasn't wet. Looking further down, Gerard encountered pale, shapely shoulders that seemed to give off a slight golden glow, like a summer tan or the reflection of a buttercup. Gerard had crept forward by this point and was mentally shaking himself for waxing poetic about the aquatic anomaly in his bathroom when his gaze got to the part where there were tentacles instead of arms and his brain shorted out. His mouth hung open and he started to retreat, groping behind him for the door.

"It's OK," the squid said, softer this time. "You can look."

Gerard gathered himself and peered inside the bathtub. He saw a swirling writhing mess of almost glowing tentacles. They looked strong yet delicate, capable of curling up really tight or forming the smallest probing tip. He was mesmerised by the way they moved, seemingly individual but working as a choreographed whole.

The refraction of light on the water obscured the area where torso became tentacle. Gerard tried to remember back to when the squid had been on land, gasping and thrashing, but his physiology hadn't been apparent then either. His brain stuttered back into gear and a myriad of questions arose in his mind - about how this creature was physically possible, where it came from, what it was doing in his bath. He settled on:

"What are you?"

"You might want to pull up a floor tile. I've probably got some explaining to do."

Gerard landed on the floor with a thud. "What - When - How are you even?"

The squid held up a tentacle point and cut him off with "Just let me explain. You can ask questions after."

~~~~~

"So let me get this straight," Gerard responded, after the squid had tried his best to explain. "You're some sort of aquatic genie. I somehow, uh, rubbed your lamp and you crawled out of the sea to fix the train wreck that is my life."

"A lamp wouldn't exactly work under water," the squid said slowly, looking at Gerard as if he was very slow. "You land dwellers aren't the brightest creatures but you ought to know that."

"It's a reference," Gerard replied, affronted. "You know - Aladdin? From the stories and the films and that Disney animation?"

"Again, underwater conditions are not exactly conducive to television and books."

"Then how did you know I needed help?" Gerard felt this was a valid and, given the circumstances, very pertinent question.

"Um...it's...there isn't the right terminology for it in your language. It's kind of a mystical, magical fate thing." He accompanied this with a wibbly wobbly writhing of the two tentacles Gerard was beginning to think of as arms. "Just think of it as there being a powerful sorcerer who commands all knowledge of the kingdoms of land, sea and air. He influenced events so that I was offshore near your house that night. I saw you nearly get taken by the water. I saved you."

Gerard was consumed by giggles. It was too much. Already seated on the floor, he lurched over to the side, clutching his stomach. "So what you're saying is, a wizard did it!"

The squid shrugged.

"This is too much," Gerard wheezed out. "I've got to admit it, my hallucinations are pretty damn interesting. Maybe I should write an issue about this."

The memory of his reality brought him back down to earth. Grant. He'd phoned Grant who had corroborated the happenings. He fished his phone out of his pocket and checked the call log. Either he had talked to Grant for 23 minutes or his hallucination was very detailed.

The squid interrupted his thoughts: "I don't want to be rude, but I've had a tiring day, what with nearly suffocating earlier, and now I'm really starving."

"Oh, sure. I'll just go and..." Gerard wandered off towards the kitchen.

~~~~~

His hand automatically alighted on an unfinished bottle of whiskey. With the bottle half-way to his open mouth he remembered why he'd come into the kitchen in the first place: food. What on earth does a squid eat? Fish? Or would that be cannibalism? Gerard thought it better to ask rather than risk offending the quasi-mystical sea creature in his bath tub. He headed for the bathroom, all thoughts of whiskey behind him.

"Hey, um, what should I call you?" he asked.

"You can call me Bob."

"Ooookaay. I'm Gerard Way. What do you eat?"

"Seaweed mainly. Any fruit or vegetables would do instead."

"Oh, sure, that's easy enough." Gerard was interrupted by the doorbell. Panic rose in his mind. What if someone saw Bob? What if it was men in white coats coming to take him away? Gerard forced himself to breathe. If Bob was real he would have proof he wasn't insane. And if not, he could get away with claiming it was a crazy superstar antic.

Gerard buzzed to open his security gate and waited trepidatiously behind the front door. When he heard approaching footsteps he tentatively opened it and awaited his fate. Fate seemed to be in a good mood today, as his judgement arrived in the form of a short, tattooed, long-haired man with - Gerard felt - an inappropriately pretty face and a sports bag.

As he stood gaping the visitor held out his hand, beamed at him and announced himself as Frank. "The squid guy?" he added at Gerard's blank look. "Grant sent me?" he continued, voice rising like a question. the smile fading from his face as Gerard still didn't move or answer.

Colour rose in Gerard's cheeks and he managed to sputter out a greeting and usher Frank inside the house. He gestured towards the bathroom and Frank took the hint.

Gerard trailed behind and entered the tiled room to find Frank on his knees, genuflecting in from of Bob.

"Yes, yes, you can stop all that," Bob was saying, twirling one of his fore-tentacles around in what looked to Gerard like awkwardness.

Frank moved into action, spilling open his bag and dropping all manner of antiquated-looking scientific equipment onto the floor. He grabbed a magnifying glass or scope and rushed forward to Bob, looking concerned.

"What have you done to your self this time Bobert?" He peered at Bob's tentacles through the scope. "You nearly died. You haven't eaten god knows how long and there is not one iota of salt in this water."

Frank looked around at Gerard then asked, more quietly: "I hope you know what you're doing."

"And you," Frank pointed at Gerard. "I hope you know how lucky you are."

Frank's eyes bored deep into Gerard's confused face for what seemed like forever. Eventually his expression softened and Gerard felt as if he had passed a test he didn't know he had been taking.

"Get me some fruit, the softer the better, and all the salt you have," he instructed Gerard and returned to his ministrations on the squid.

Gerard returned to the kitchen to comply.

~~~~~

Gerard deflated on the sofa. It had taken several hours for Frank to attend to Bob's health and feed him according to the arcane rules of Bob's species. That Bob had insisted the ceremony wasn't necessary just seemed to make it last even longer. Now Gerard had to come to terms with the fact that not only did he have a magical squid in his house, this squid was apparently some sort of minor deity amongst his kind. Frank had filled him in on the lore. It turns out Bob was even more than he appeared to be: Bobert von Bryarson, Princeling of the Seventh Ocean, heir to the Oceanic throne, leader of the Order of Sea Shepherds.

It also turned out he was recklessly defiant of the current Queen of the Seventh Ocean in that he pushed his magical powers to the limits to help as many creatures - human or otherwise - that he could. Gerard was torn between disbelief and a deep fascination with this completely new realm of biology and mythology that he drank in as if it was a long-lost Tolkein novel. He couldn't help thinking how amazing Bobert would look in ink, tentacles swirling across a double-page in a panel-defying spread.

The fact that the information was coming from as beguiling a source as Frank no doubt added to Gerard's interest. He was all enthusiastic descriptions and reverent respect mixed with a healthy rebelliousness that Bob seemed to bear with good grace. The fond look on Frank's face when he looked at Bob and thought no one was watching made Gerard wonder about the relationship between the royal squid and his human helper.

Gerard was watching such a scene from just outside the bathroom when his phone rang in his hand. He was so flustered by the combined scrutiny of Bob and Frank as they turned to look and saw him creeping outside the door that he answered the phone without thinking. It was his brother.

Before Gerard could even say a word Mikey sounded so god damn pleased that he had answered that Gerard couldn't bring himself to hang up and continue his self-imposed exile. To his credit, Mikey didn't make a big deal of the fact that they hadn't spoken in months. He acted as if they had spoken the day before, making reference to a couple of movies and books he guessed Gerard would be interested and Gerard managed to calm his inner panic (and guilt) to reply with a few 'um's and 'yeah's and 'totally's in the appropriate places. Seemingly worried of pushing too fast, Mikey wrapped things up pretty quickly. As cool as he was playing it, his voice raised hopefully turning his sign-off into a question:

"I'll speak to you tomorrow?"

"Yes," was Gerard's definite affirmative.

Gerard ended the call and turned around to realise Frank and Bob were still looking at him. Bob broke the silence:

"Get in here, Gerard. I'm not here for a social visit. We've got work to do."

~~~~~

"What do you think you need to change, Gerard?" Bob asked.

"Can't you just tell me?" Gerard realised he was near whining. "I know I've fucked up. I came out here to make art, to commit something beautiful to paper and tell the stories I've always wanted to tell. Now I'm a comics hack churning out pages for titles I wouldn't even read. And that's when I manage to complete anything - I spend more time partying than at my desk."

"That sounds like the place to start, then."

Gerard was about to protest but stopped himself. He knew it was true. He'd have to call Steve, resign from his contracts and fire the duplicitous scumbag. He knew it had to happen yet he had no idea what he'd do next.

"What else?" Bob prompted.

Gerard groaned. "Bert," he stated. "Bert and that whole crowd. The partying. The drinking. But..."

Bob levelled his gaze at him, looking somehow entirely otherworldly while also understanding. Gerard knew what he had to do.

~~~~~

Sitting on the tiled floor, head in his hands, Gerard had a terrible feeling of vertigo. He could see the life he knew (even if it was one he didn't like) spinning away from him. With Steve terminated, Bert's number deleted from his cell he had no job, no friends and an awkward reconciliation with his family to look forward to. He didn't know how he was going to do it.

A slick and surprisingly cool touch lighted on his bare forearm. Gerard peeked at his arm and saw a band of gold flow around his wrist, the tip massaging comfortingly over his pulse point. He didn't know what he'd done to deserve such help. He raised his head to look Bob in the eye, once again mesmerised by the alien beauty of the sea oddity.

Bob coughed, acquired a pinkish shade in all his limbs and turned away. "Don't be getting moon-eyed over me, land dweller." He seemed to be trying to give the impression of being haughty and imperious but only succeeded in sounding incredibly embarrassed.

"No, no," Gerard protested. "I wasn't thinking anything like that!"

He had been thinking something like that, wondering how the firm press of those soft tentacles would feel against his flesh. Then Frank returned and his hand dropped to rest on Gerard's shoulder in a gesture of solidarity and comfort and all his thoughts of kinky squid sex vanished. He smiled at Frank and Frank beamed back and Gerard realised he would rather have the very human, tattooed arms of the squid doctor around him. He realised he did have a friend and Frank's answering smile told him he would be a friend (and more) who would be sticking around for a long while. (Although the idea of Bob perhaps taking a break from saving those in need to join them in the bedroom, well bathroom, was not unwelcome.)

A ringing in his pants alerted him to another phone call. Seeing it was Grant, Gerard picked up immediately.

"I owe you the biggest thank you ever," he started.

"So it worked, did it?" came the amused reply.

"You did this?" Gerard was incredulous. To him, Grant was a role model, someone he wouldn't expect to spend two seconds thinking about him never mind taking the time to help him turn his life around.

"I asked the Fates for intervention, that's all. We get the retribution we deserve. But this sort of magic doesn't come cheap, you know," Grant said, far too gleefully for Gerard's liking. He had been waiting to find out it was too good to be true - worried that he was unconscious on the beach and dreaming all of this - and braced himself. "A tribute should do it. An artistic rendering of the Seventh Ocean's delinquent princeling to repay him for assisting you and get him back into the Queen's good graces. I was thinking a 20-issue run, minimum, drawn by you, co-authored by the both of us and published on my independent label. What do you think?"

As Gerard rambled his astonished thanks almost incoherently into the phone Frank and Bobert shared a look above his head. They could definitely mark down the day's adventures as a success.

 

THE END


End file.
